Unattached MaleUnattached Female
by cactusnell
Summary: Mary loves to play matchmaker, but she never thought these two would get together. Sherlolly


Sherlock Holmes was currently ensconced in a rather comfortable armchair in the sitting room of John and Mary Watson's flat, nursing a very good scotch and a very bad attitude. There were two things in this world that he didn't handle well. Alcohol and sentiment. (He also had problems with malevolent dwarf clowns, but since everybody should have problems with malevolent dwarf clowns, this couldn't be held against him.) When he indulged in the two things simultaneously, their ill effects tended to increase geometrically. Therefore, it was safe to assume that it was going to be a bumpy night.

Since his return to the land of the living after his two year "death" Sherlock had been trying, with some limited success, to pass himself off as a normal human being. John and Mary had encouraged him to become part of their social scene. John didn't realize he had a social scene until he had met and married Mary. Mary was a very friendly and outgoing woman with a large circle of acquaintances. Larger than seemed possible for a former hitwoman, but John wasn't one to question. Sherlock, at one point, did dare to question, and was met with an icy stare he did not want to see repeated, even though he trusted Mary Watson implicitly when she said she had truly reformed.

Mary loved to throw parties for anything. Birthdays were never ignored, national holidays were celebrated with patriotic fervor, game nights occurred often, and impromptu get-to-gethers were common. Mary's hobby seemed to be matchmaking, so she always had what she called her "unattached " friends in attendance, hoping to attach them to somebody. That was why Sherlock was always forced to participate. Mary knew that he wouldn't come peacefully, so she always used his goddaughter, Claire, as bait. Sherlock would do practically anything to spend time with the toddler, being not much more than a spoiled child himself. He also knew that Mary had long since given up on him as boyfriend material for anybody. She once had notions of getting him and his pathologist, Dr. Molly Hooper, together, as it had been an open secret that Molly was absolutely besotted with him, and had been for years. At least, this was what everybody told her. Mary herself couldn't see it. She had only met Molly after Sherlock's supposed death, being introduced by John. All she could see was an honest, platonic relationship between the detective and the doctor. And since she liked Molly so much, she could not even think about her in a relationship with the "high functioning sociopath", as he described himself. No, Mary invited Sherlock as bait! There was no denying that he was gorgeous. Chiselled cheek bones, dark curls, and eyes you could get lost in. It was when he opened his mouth that he became unattractive. Once any of her unattached female friends had taken a run at Sherlock bloody Holmes, they were more than willing to become acquainted with the not-so-handsome but far kinder gentleman on the other side of the room. Mary had orchestrated at least three successful relationships in this way, and was looking to up her score. It was one of the great disappointments of Mary's matchmaking career that one of these successes had not involved Molly Hooper.

Sherlock was still in his comfy chair sipping his drink slowly when Molly approached.

"How many drinks is that now, Sherlock?"

"Only my second," he would have snarled the answer to anyone but Molly.

"Having a good evening?"

"So far I have driven two woman into the arms of unsuspecting men. Mary is quite pleased. Would you like me to drive you in any particular direction?" Sherlock asked, he thought rhetorically.

But, to his surprise, Molly smilingly said, "There is a rather attractive blond gentleman out in the back garden. I was talking to him earlier. Perhaps you could traumatize me enough to drive me into his arms? Or at least his proximity?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrow questioningly, but Molly simply leaned in to kiss him on the cheek , saying with a laugh, "Keep up the good work!" Then she headed to the garden.

Sherlock refreshed his drink, and muttered to himself while rubbing his cheek, "I must do something about that woman's aim!" This thought rather startled him. And he realized that he may have the beginning of a problem. It seems that lately he had been plagued with bouts of...sentiment. These bouts commonly involved his pathologist, but they were usually easily dismissed by a cold shower or a visit to his mind palace to sort things out. Since a shower didn't seem appropriate at the moment, he put down his drink, steepled his fingers under his chin, and prepared to get lost in his private domain. But this wasn't going to work either, as his mind palace had inexplicably turned into a circus tent. A circus tent populated by malevolent dwarf clowns! Must be the excess of scotch! He beat a hasty retreat, returning just in time to see his Molly (_where had the "his" come from_, he thought?), chatting amiably with a rather attractive man across the room. Attractive if you liked that sort of thing. Washed out blond hair, not dark unruly curls. Cheekbones? He didn't see anything of significance. His eyes couldn't be that great. And did women really like dimples on one's chin. Besides that, he was short! Only two or three inches taller than Molly. Perhaps he was a dwarf? A dwarf clown in disguise? Sherlock had another drink and growled loud enough to capture John's attention.

"How many drinks have you had, mate? You don't usually growl unless there's someone around `to growl at!" John then followed Sherlock's stare across the room to Molly and her companion. "Oh, that's Tom. Nice guy. He's a friend of Ma…"

"Not another bloody Tom!" Sherlock was obviously referring to Molly's former fiance. "What the hell, does she have a thing for men named Tom?"

"Sherlock, I think that's the first time you've actually remembered his name. Didn't you usually refer to him as 'meat dagger'."

Sherlock growled again, saying, "I only remember the names of people I like. People who are important to me." He glowered at his best friend. "Keep that in mind, Jock!"

John beat a hasty retreat as Sherlock took another sip. Molly, noticing the conversation, took her leave of mister short, light, and not-quite-so-handsome, and crossed the room toward him as she shook her head disapprovingly at him.

"Sherlock, how many drinks have you had?"

"Why does everybody keep asking me that? Three!"

"Liar!" she laughed at him.

"Maybe I'm lonely. Maybe I need company!"

"You take great delight in scaring company away, Sherlock."

"I don't scare you, do I?"

"No, Sherlock, you don't ever scare me. But if you're so bored, why not just go tp your mind palace for a respite?"

"I can't. It's turned into a circus tent, surrounded by clowns!"

"Clowns?"

"Short, mean, nasty clowns!"

Molly then removed the glass of scotch from his hand, knowing that he had definitely had enough. She had been sitting on the arm of the chair while she spoke to him, but when Sherlock noticed her glancing once again at the stranger across the room, he pulled her onto his lap, putting his arms around her waist possessively. He then proceeded to smile threateningly at the man. Most people couldn't really pull off a threatening smile, but Sherlock Holmes could! The man across the room, deciding that retreat was the better part of valor, actually nodded in concession and left the room.

"Sherlock, you really are incorrigible." She leaned into him and once again kissed him on the cheek. (_I really must do something about her aim!_ he thought once again.) Molly then removed herself from his lap, took his hands, and standing him unsteadily on his feet, muttered, "I think it's time we got you to bed."

"I couldn't agree more," he muttered under his breath.

Molly and Sherlock said their goodbyes to the host and hostess, and went out into the warm evening in search of a cab. Sherlock seemed to be a lot steadier on his feet that Molly had expected, but she still intended to drop him off first, then continue on home. So she was a bit surprised when he told the driver to head right to her flat. He would brook no opposition. Molly knew better than to argue with him in his condition. Perhaps some strong coffee would do him some good before he staggered off to bed. She looked over at him to see that he was lost in thought. Molly was the only person who could get his attention when he was like this.

"Mind palace, Sherlock?"

"Still clowns," he said morosely. Molly suppressed a giggle.

They made it up the stairs to her flat with only two stumbles, and she quickly deposited Sherlock on the couch in her sitting room.

"I'll put on a pot of coffee, Sherlock. Relax. I'm going to get out of this outfit. It was rather warm at the Watson's flat, what with all the people. I feel uncomfortable. Yuck!" Molly kicked off her shoes, "I'm going to slip into something more comfortable…" Even as she was saying it, she realized that it sounded like a seductive line from an old romantic comedy. Her only comfort was that Sherlock, surely, would not make any inferences. She may have been wrong.

Sherlock, sitting on the couch, heard her say that she was going to "slip into something more comfortable", and, remembering all those idiotically romantic movies Mummy used to watch on telly, started to make himself "more comfortable" as well. By the time Molly returned to the sitting room, he had his shoes and socks off, as well as his suit coat. He was working unsuccessfully on the last few buttons of his shirt, when he heard his name being shouted from across the room. Not exactly the dulcet tones and sweet nothings he was hoping for.

He looked over at "his" Molly, and his ears started to turn a lovely shade of pink, this time not due to an alcoholic flush. "You said you were going to slip into…"

Molly giggled.

_At least she doesn't seem angry_, Sherlock thought. _This never would have happened if he could have gotten into his mind palace. Damned dwarf clowns!_

Molly stalked into her kitchen, still giggling. She poured a hefty mug of strong coffee, black two sugars, and carried it to the sitting room for Sherlock. "I think you need this."

"Why? I thought I was having a good time without it."

"Well, sober yourself up a bit, mate! I have a sneaking suspicion that it may even be illegal for me to take advantage of you in your inebriated state." Molly smiled at him. "Not to mention impossible. It looks like you're about to pass out."

"You may be right. I don't feel so well all of a sudden." He took a sip of the hot coffee, and almost choked, "You make terrible coffee, Molly. You'll have to learn to do better if…"

"If, Sherlock…", Molly said leadingly as she looked into his quickly glazing over eyes.

"You know, if…", Sherlock was now waving his hand around, bouncing it in the space between him and Molly. "Molly, do you think it would be illegal for you to at least kiss me? You've already kissed me twice tonight. I counted. But your aim was simply awful."

She gently took the mug from his hand as he seemed to be rapidly losing muscle control and placed it on the table. "I think I can risk it," she said as she put her hands into his hair and pulled his face to hers. He obviously hadn't lost all control, as he encircled her waist and pulled her even closer. Drunk or not, it was the best kiss ever.

Molly pulled away regretfully, and, tugging at his arms, pulled him slowly to his feet.

"Are we going to sleep together, Molly?"

"Yes. Sherlock, SLEEP being the operative term here. We'll discuss anything further when you sober up."

Sherlock was beginning to really slur his words, but she did make out several comments.

"You're so lovely, Molly. We're going to have beautiful children." He was now leaning heavily on her shoulder.

Molly laughed happily, "Don't count on it, you git. They could all look like Mycroft!"

"At least they'll be smart!"

"What if they take after some throwback moron ancestor?"

"That would have to be from your side of the family!"

"Sherlock," Molly was now laughing uproariously, "That's kind of insulting!"

Sherlock looked stricken. "No, no...I didn't mean it. Molly! I'm sure there's no morons on your side of the family. Although, umm, I have never met you parents...Strike that! They can be dumb as bricks and ugly as ….what's ugly, Molly. Give me a little help here…"

"Jellyfish?" Molly was grasping at straws.

"Jellyfish? Really, Molly. I have always found some species of jellyfish to be rather attractive. They can be so symmetrical, so delicate, so…" Sherlock let out a great snore as Molly practically dropped him on the bed.

Molly covered him gently and climbed into the other side of the bed. She wrapped her arms around him and snuggled into his side. This wasn't exactly the way she had always imagined it in her dreams, but she couldn't picture herself any happier. Well, she might have been a little more pleased if he had just said…

"I love you, Molly." Sherlock had stopped snoring just long enough to speak the exact words she wanted to hear.

"I love you too, Sherlock."

But the famous detective had one last question before he drifted away for good.

"There's no clowns on your side of the family, are there Molly. That may be a dealbreaker. I hate bloody clowns."

"


End file.
